


Woes of the Pharynx

by Vulpesmellifera



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sickfic, mycroft is a drama queen and greg loves him for it, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 17:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18056738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulpesmellifera/pseuds/Vulpesmellifera
Summary: The British Government felled by a cold.





	Woes of the Pharynx

**Author's Note:**

> This past week the Twitter Mystrade Fam saw many of its members fall ill. This is for you guys!
> 
> I wrote this while experiencing the symptoms Mycroft describes, and while under the influence of NyQuil. Enjoy!

Greg walked into the shadowed living room, spying the mummy-like figure on the sofa. “Found you. Anthea made you go home, did she? What’s wrong?”

The sofa-lump shifted, and a garble of muffled sound came out. Greg reached the end table and turned the lamp on, washing the room in a soft, golden glow. “You’ll have to uncover yourself, My. I can’t understand you.”

The blanket, a soft brushed wool the color of camel, moved to reveal the flushed face of Mycroft Holmes. “I think someone brutalized my throat with a meat tenderizer and then added salt,” he rasped. The foremost curl of his hair stuck straight up over his forehead as if to salute.

“Ugh. Can I get you some tea? I can add honey and lemon, if you like.” Greg loosened his tie and began pulling off his shoes, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face.

“It’s as if my pharynx were an open wound, raw and pulsating, and you want to offer me tea with honey and lemon?” Even ill, Mycroft’s voice could reach seraphim heights of condescension. Greg smiled as he watched his lover bury his head back under the blanket. He gently pushed and prodded Mycroft, blanket and all, into an upright position and slid next to him on the sofa. “Listen, we’ll sit here a mo’ so you can gather your strength, and then we’re getting you to bed. With tea. With lemon and honey.”

“Needles, Greg, like being stabbed in the throat with needles every time I dare swallow,” came the answering whine from beneath the blanket.

“Sorry to hear that, beautiful.” He slid an arm around Mycroft’s blanketed form. “Did you take anything?”

“At what point is it allowable to just upend the bottle of chloraseptic into my mouth?”

Greg’s was glad Mycroft couldn’t see his face, as his mouth stretched into a grin. “Let’s go, My. To the kitchen.”

 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft slumped into the kitchen chair and placed his forehead on the table, blanket still wrapped about his shoulders. “Like a thousand pinpricks of my mucosa. Such tender tissue and such harsh treatment.”

Greg made tea, smiling, spooning out the honey and squeezing a wedge of lemon. “You’ll have to walk up before me on the stairs. I need to carry your tea.”

As they walked up the stairs, Mycroft leaned heavily on the mahogany railing. “Perhaps tiny bees have decided to nest in the upper tract of my esophagus.”

Greg shook his head, still smiling, and followed him into the bedroom. “D’you have a fever?”

“No fever.” Greg saw that Mycroft was already wearing his pyjamas. The ill man slid in under the covers. He cast his gaze at Greg, his lower lip sticking out. Greg handed him his tea as Mycroft said, “It’s as if someone took coarse sandpaper, 40-grit caliber, and scraped it across the lining.”

“You’ve a bad head cold, My. I’ll take care of you. Also, I'm shocked as to how you know what grades sandpaper comes in.” Greg went in the en-suite and poured a glass of water before Mycroft could respond. He walked back and placed it on the nightstand as Mycroft sipped his tea. “I remember you were sniffling yesterday. Headache?”

“Comes and goes. Meanwhile, my esophagus is growing spines, like an arid desert cactus.”

“You’re really colorful when you’re ill, you know that?” Greg unbuttoned his shirt and undid his belt buckle.

“You’re laughing at my anguish. Also, you’re engaging in a unique brand of torture right now. What have I done to deserve this, Greg?”

Greg snorted as he shrugged off his shirt, and began pulling up the vest. “What d’you mean?”

“Undressing before my eyes, when I can’t possibly kiss you, can’t possibly indulge in nighttime pleasures. You’re a cruel man.”

Greg chuckled and pulled down his trousers. “You mean, like this?” He placed his hands behind his head and bounced his hips from side to side, wearing nothing but his pants.

Mycroft coughed. “Oh! Here I lay in convalescence, and you seek to drive me to madness. I am in agony, and you taunt me.”

“Yeah, but you forgot about how your throat feels, didn’t ya?” Greg winked at him and collected his pyjamas from the drawer.

“A carpet of pine needles, perhaps. The dry, sharp kind.”

Greg laughed and finished putting on his pyjamas. He slid into his side of the bed.

“No, Greg, I don’t want you to get sick. I really should take the guestroom. You don’t want this...plague.” Mycroft put his cup of tea on the nightstand. Greg moved closer and hugged him.

“I don’t care, you big drama queen. You probably already gave it to me, anyway.” He kissed the warm temple of his beloved. “I’m here now. No need for you to be so sad and tragic.”

“You are the best partner anyone could ask for,” Mycroft said, his voice low and serious, “but miniscule devils are perforating my pharynx with pitchforks.”

“I love you, too, My.” Greg sighed with contentment as he nestled in with his husband.

 

 

 


End file.
